


All in one

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Romance, Domestic, Fluff, Humor, Loungewear, M/M, Old Man Sam Winchester, Relationship(s), Sam Winchester-centric, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: Dating across the Gen Y/millennial divide (or: the Sam/Max Banes/onesies fic you never knew you wanted)“Is this some kind of millennial thing?”“More like a people with excellent loungewear taste thing,” says Max.





	

**Author's Note:**

> THE FLUFF IS HERE (I don't know guys, I don't know) (herewith you have a vision of what's been occupying my brain for the past... well, how long ago did 12x06 air?) (that long, that's how long I've been steeping myself in this shizz). (Seriously, though, I'm intending to write a more meaty Sam/Max in the summer and this is sort of... warming up to that. Getting them worked out in my brain.) Thanks to my constant Sam/Max headcanons tennis partner, [@winchestersinthedrift](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vaneharriet/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift), who really did good things for the ending of this fic, and to light-touch beta [@indefinissable](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable) for shamelessly encouraging me through the very last stretch. This may be a tiny little ship, but the crew are a frickin' delight.

“I hope you brought your onesie,” says Alicia as she opens the door.

“My what now?” says Sam. She raises her eyebrows, steps back to show off the bright pink all-in-one she’s wearing, made of thick sweatshirt material with white ribbing at the collar and cuffs.

“In the Banes household,” she tells him, “downtime is onesie time.”

“... Right.”

She grins at him, head tilted. “I don’t make the rules.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you made that rule,” says Max from the living room door. Alicia pouts, and he steps forward. “I can take it from here.” Sam relaxes at that. He likes Alicia, but she makes him self-conscious. She’s so confident. But it’s more than that; she won’t waste her time on the people she thinks aren’t worth it, is fully prepared to tell someone to their face that she ‘needs to be somewhere else right now’ and just turn on her heel and go. After that, she and Max will pick them apart in long gossipy sessions that, on the single occasion that Sam witnessed one, left the twins howling with laughter and Sam himself floating confused in a sea of half-finished sentences. He’s pretty sure that Alicia wouldn’t trash-talk him - Max wouldn’t be down for it, and he knows if he thinks about it that she does like him well enough. It’s just that her bouncy self-assurance brings out the worst of his natural uncertainty. He feels like he has to struggle to impress.

So Max arrives, and Sam breathes out, and Alicia says “I’m serious about the onesie time,” over her shoulder as she walks past Max into the living room.

“Just give us a chance to get the birthday suit time in first, a’ight?” says Max with a grin (“oh my god,” Sam says quietly). Alicia sticks her head back out the doorway, the better to roll her eyes. Two seconds later, the volume on the TV ratchets up ostentatiously loud.

Sam feels his cheeks heat up as he looks at the carpet, the radiator, the black-and-white photos on the hallway wall. He’s been here before but only once, and they were drunk then, several generous whiskies blurring the sharp corners of Sam’s nerves enough to make him kind of pushy (he thinks perhaps, kind of noisy too).

“Y’alright?” says Max, closer now, clear gold-green of his eyes meeting Sam’s.

“Yeah,” says Sam, “yeah, I’m good.” He is good, he’s just, it’s still early days and their meetings are rare enough that he has to battle through this initial awkward moment where he forgets how he’s supposed to physically behave - but Max doesn’t have that problem, steps up and kisses him, and suddenly Sam’s just fine. He feels himself shiver with the hot-water shock that lust sometimes catches him with, feels it coursing warm through his core. Before he really knows how it happens, he has Max up against the hallway wall, Sam’s hands pressed against the plaster either side of Max’s shoulders as he leans forward into the kiss.

They’re grinding on each other pretty hard by the time Max stops Sam with a hand on his chest. “Come on,” he says, tangles his fingers in Sam’s and tugs him along the corridor to his bedroom at the back of the building.

After, Sam sprawls in the bedsheets, tousled and warm. Max, propped on an elbow, brushes fingers through Sam’s hair; flips the weight of it from one side to the other and back. Sam submits to it, blinks up at him drowsy and happy. He’s feeling good. When Max is done with his hairstyling, he drops his hand to Sam’s chest, settling it on the new tattoo that spreads out over his heart and up across the curve of his shoulder, much larger than the single symbol that Dean’s still sporting and with the design picked out starkly in sharp lines of fresh ink. They designed this together, Sam and Max, a conversation that began in a bar in Duluth and spun out over the following weeks in a series of pictures and texts. Max has his own design climbing his thigh, Alicia’s garlanded across her lower back. They’re different: “customised,” Max says. Magic’s better, more solid, when it’s individualised. Sam’s still warming up to proposing something similar to Dean. He’s already had some ideas about what his brother’s design might include.

Max traces fingertips over the scorpion whose tail curls up over Sam’s shoulder, onto his back. This was one of Max’s additions - self-protection - and it’s one of the symbols that links their two designs. It was, uh. The first time they hooked up was the same day that Sam got this tattoo. He’d had the design drawn out for weeks, had opportunities too when Dean was out drinking and there’d been a shop pretty close to their motel; but something about the thought of it, baring himself to the needle, had made it a huge heavy presence in his mind. Max had asked about it a couple times by text, but it had taken until they next met up for him to nudge Sam and say, deliberately light, “You wanna get it done now? I can come with, keep an eye on the design.”

Sam had found unexpectedly that yeah, that was just what he wanted. And then, in the shop, with the needle singing bright and Max looking with undisguised appreciation at his shirtless body, that they both of them wanted more as well. It had been inevitable, after that. They'd hit up a bar nearby, once Sam was done, lasting barely five minutes before they bailed and headed to a motel. Max had run fingertips over the tattoo then, too, feather-light and stinging and Sam had arched into the touch.

What Max is doing now, though, isn’t starting anything. They’re both pretty thoroughly fucked out. It’s just… touch for the sake of it. Affectionate. Grounding. Sam likes to think that Max is bleeding power into the ink, just a little, just through the fullness of his understanding of what it means.

Eventually Max’s fingers still. He brushes his palm flat over Sam’s chest before heaving himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs round over the edge of the bed. “Guess we should get up,” he says, looking back over his shoulder. “You want a drink or something?”

“Gotta hydrate!” says Sam, facetious, and Max chuckles, more than the joke deserves. He stands up, naked, walks over to the closet. Sam’s left on the bed to enjoy the view.

“Pervert,” Max says without turning, and Sam wonders with a glimmer of fear about the limitations of Max’s magic. He wouldn’t - it’s stupid. They haven’t necessarily talked in depth about this stuff but they touched on it enough for Sam to be quite clear how Max feels about people poking around in other people's heads. Max wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

Max turns around, wiggles his hips without a shade of modesty. “It’s okay,” he says. “You enjoy the show. Though… maybe we should go be sociable for a while. You up for that?”

Sam thinks about it. Yeah. He thinks - after the afternoon’s activities, he’s feeling solid enough that he doesn’t hate that idea. And they can’t really stay in bed _all_ day, not when they’re in the apartment and Alicia’s home. “Sure.”

“Awesome,” says Max, and bends over to grab something from his chest of drawers. Sam closes his eyes, drifts for a moment. When he opens them, Max is watching him, his expression soft, though it shifts instantly into amusement as he catches Sam’s eye. He strikes a pose, voguing with his hands framing his face. He’s wearing a onesie much like Alicia’s, though Max’s is dark aubergine purple where hers was pink. It sits just right over the breadth of his shoulders, clings nicely over the muscles in his arms.

“Al _right_ ,” Max says, and Sam lets his good feeling bubble up into a laugh.

He pushes himself upright. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

The bathroom is next along from Max’s room, with a wide showerhead in shiny chrome that Sam secretly thinks might have better pressure than the ones in the bunker. He luxuriates in it, letting the water heat him through, feeling the pleasant ache as his muscles unwind. Out of the shower, he finds Max gone and the faint sound of conversation emanating from the living room. Sam sorts through his bag, picks up his jeans, holding them in his hands for a moment before he puts them back again. He burrows deeper and pulls out his yoga pants and a grey V-necked T-shirt. Pyjama party.

“Whoah whoah whoah,” says Alicia as soon as she sees him. “What is this?”

Sam looks down at himself, looks at Max. “I’m doing my best…?”

“You’ll have to borrow Max’s spare.” Alicia hauls herself out of her armchair, heads for the door.

Sam feels his eyebrows leap. “You have two of those?”

“Oh yeah,” says Max. “And those are just the sensible ones. I got an ewok, a crocodile…” He’s listing them on his fingers. “Incredible Hulk…”

Sam shakes his head, damp strands catching in his eyes. What a world. He’s having sex with (dating?) a guy with a wardrobe of onesies. He’s too old for this. “Is this some kind of millennial thing?”

“More like a people with excellent loungewear taste thing,” says Max, and Sam’s opening his mouth to reply when Alicia hollers at him from the back room. Max smiles, a slow sunbeam breaking over his face. “You better hop to it,” he says.

The second onesie is plain, at least, navy blue in the same design as the twins’. It is also more or less the right size, over Sam’s shoulders anyway, although it’s a little too short in the leg.

“Much better,” says Alicia, mock-serious and assessing. It’s certainly comfortable. Sam stretches like a cat, feels the material shift snug over his flesh. “A wearable hug,” Alicia says then, making herself laugh.

They watch trashy TV and eat takeout for the rest of the afternoon, change it up for horror movies through the evening and into the night. Sam and Max take the big grey couch and Alicia curls up in the armchair, throwing popcorn at their heads whenever Max gets a little too cosy (his hand sliding sneaky over Sam’s thigh, his legs tucked tight over Sam’s). Once, when she thinks they’re really getting too frisky, a little raincloud appears above them, swells and pops into a chilly mist that makes Sam shiver.

“Show off,” Max says, and she shrugs her shoulders, flashes her teeth.

It must be past midnight by the time Alicia gets up, yawning. “Bed,” she says. “You gonna be here in the morning, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess I’ll leave around lunchtime.”

“Excellent. You’ll be here for brunch. Sunday means pancakes.”

“You guys live the life, huh,” Sam says to Max once she’s gone. He means it. The apartment feels comfortable, domesticated in a way that Sam and Dean have never quite achieved in their big institutional home. Not that… well, the bunker’s definitely a step up from the motels Sam inhabited throughout his childhood and adolescence.

Max frowns. “Is that the onesie talking?”

“Huh?”

“I thought you liked all that stuff. The old-school hunter stuff. The plaid and the workboots and the rock music and that car.” He smirks. “A woman in every diner…”

Sam punches him in the thigh. “Shut up.” He thinks about it. “I do like that stuff. It’s, uh.” (It’s Dad, it’s Dean.) “But this is nice for a change. You know.” He stops then, finding himself unexpectedly wobbly. Don’t do it, he tells himself. Creepy and intense is not a good strategy, six months in.

Max looks at him thoughtfully, gives it a few seconds and then shakes his head. “Damn,” he says. “I guess that means you’re not gonna let me get rid of your shirts.”

“I like my shirts!” Sam says; and when Max opens his mouth, “Yeah, even the orange one. Back off.”

“Oh yeah?” says Max. He leans closer, and Sam leans away, and then somehow Sam’s lying back on the couch and Max is climbing up his body to straddle him, sitting low on his torso, just above his crotch. He looks down at Sam, looks him dead in the eyes. “You want me to back off?” Without breaking eye contact, Max begins to unzip his onesie, tugging the zipper down slowly inch by inch to expose his chest. He raises his eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

Sam runs his hand up the outside of Max’s thigh, round under the curve of his ass. “Well. Guess I’m open to persuasion,” he says.

~

Sam gets back to the bunker with a weird ache of absence sitting under his ribs. He’s not used to missing somebody, not with Dean right there in the library. “Good time?” Dean says as Sam walks through the door, his tone carefully, blandly bright.

“Yeah, good time,” Sam says.

Back in his bedroom, he opens his duffel to dig out his laundry and finds the navy blue onesie neatly folded on top of his clothes. That’s what Max was so smug about earlier. Sam holds it up, holds it against himself; tries to picture Dean’s face, if he wore it. Yeah, no way. He folds it up again and stashes at the top of his chest of drawers, alongside his hoodie and his workout clothes.

Three weeks later they come off a horrible hunt, a nest of changelings that they didn’t manage to get to before two of the captured kids had been sucked dry. The four they’d saved hadn’t made up for the weeping families, for the dead look in Dean’s eyes when they found the children slumped in their cage. Sam’s always wary about changelings around Dean anyway, the creatures edging them both too close to the forbidden topic of Lisa and Ben. He wouldn’t have taken this hunt if Donna hadn’t begged them to do it, one of the moms in the case apparently a childhood friend. Thank God, her son had been amongst the kids who made it, though it doesn’t… well, yeah, it doesn’t feel like there’s much to thank anybody for tonight.

Sam feels sick, strung out and exhausted with tiptoeing around Dean’s misery and unable to shake the memory of the small bodies cold in his arms. He’s sore at the joints from the long unrelenting car ride. Dean hadn’t wanted to stop, and Sam couldn’t blame him, sharing his brother’s desire to get back home. He feels sniffly, too, his throat raw and his head starting to clog heavy; and his clothes are filthy, bloody and crusted with mud. He drops his bag on the bed, unthinking, before he realises that now of course his clean blankets will be covered in crap. He can’t even bring himself to do anything about it before he hits the shower.

After forty minutes scalding himself under the hot tap, he shivers out along the corridor and back to his bedroom. He’s in his boxers before he thinks of the onesie - thinks twice - thinks a third time, “Fuck it,” and puts it on.

It’s warm, thick and fleecy-soft against his skin and it smells like Max’s apartment, like his laundry soap. It's surprisingly comforting. ( _Like a wearable hug_ , Sam thinks.)

Selfies are another of those millennial things Sam's bad at. Max sends them all the time; from the gym, from the library, from the hunt (from bed). (Sam’s got those last ones saved on his phone under ‘cryptobotany / lichens / north east region’, so he’s pretty sure that they’re safe from accidental discovery.) (Safer to delete them, of course, but c’mon.) Sam does what he can in response, when the mood is right ( _those_ photos he’s definitely deleted), but he’s never really mastered the casual self-portrait. Which is fine, it’s not like Max has been complaining, but it feels like the sort of romantic stuff at which Sam’s always a little behind. So. And Max will be happy that he’s wearing the thing.

He flips the camera on his phone, lifts it to an angle just over his head and strikes a pose. Man, he feels stupid. Thinking of Max on the couch (and about the picture he’d been sent on Monday, Max soft and sleepy with his face half-under his comforter) he tries unzipping the neck a little, exposing some chest. That’s worse. He doesn’t know what to do with his face. In the end he zips back up again, scrunches up his features into an exaggerated expression of misery and captions it ‘Rough hunt. Miss you.’ It’s hardly sexy but at least it doesn’t make him cringe.

He’s trying to decide whether to add an emoji (which emoji) when Dean walks into his room, a rattling bag of miscellaneous weapons in hand. “You have the other machete?”

When he sees Sam, onesie-clad and clutching his phone, he does a double take. Ah, yeah. That’s the face Sam was anticipating.

“What in fresh hell is that?”

“It’s a, um,” says Sam. “It’s loungewear.”

Dean continues to stare.

“Max gave it to me.”

Dean’s eyebrow jerks and his mouth tightens just a little. Fuck. Sam’s still not… they’re still figuring out how this works.

“Wow,” Dean says. “I know he’s a younger man, Sam, but I didn’t realise he was a fricking toddler.”

Okay. Okay, no. Sam’s tired and emotional so that must be why he doesn’t keep quiet like he usually would. “Look, okay,” he says. “I know it’s like… I know I look stupid, or whatever, but he gave it to me and it’s, I only get to see him maybe every six weeks, if that, and I feel like shit, man, I’m tired and that was a shitty hunt and yeah, okay, sue me if I wanna feel like I’ve got… he’s not fucking replacing you, Dean, he’s just, I just care about him and. Fuck.” He winds down. Dean’s still watching him, silent, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I don’t say anything about your stupid robe.”

This is the point at which Sam would quite like to storm off to his bedroom; problem being, they’re already there. He stomps off to the library instead, grabs a book from the shelves at random and sits down to look at it through blurring eyes. Jesus. Way to smooth things over, Sam.

Dean appears maybe five minutes later. He puts Sam’s iPhone down on the table in front of him, takes a step back. “You want pizza? Got a couple frozen, I think.”

Sam swallows. “Sure. Yeah. That’d be good.”

He waits until Dean’s left the room before he picks up the phone to find that the message he was writing has been sent (with no emojis). Luckily, he has only a couple of seconds to feel squeamish about the decision before the screen lights up. “ _Eyyyyy. Glad to see I’m there in spirit._ ” It buzzes again. “ _I’ll probably be up your way middle of next week if you need anything kissing better…"_

“ _Sounds good_ ,” types Sam; but he holds off on sending it until Dean comes back with the pizzas. “We gonna be here next week? Like, next Wednesday?”

“I dunno,” says Dean. “Unless your psychic radar started up again, this shit is hard to predict.” He looks at the phone in Sam’s hands. “Your boyfriend coming over?”

“He’s not my,” Sam begins. Although. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he says.

Dean purses his lips, nods long and slow. “I’ll find a case,” he says eventually. “Something easy. A basilisk, pack of chupacabras. Network of necromancers. Get out of your ridiculous hair.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam says, feeling guilty now.

Dean pats him on the back of his head. “You both gonna be wearing those, I don’t wanna be here to see the other kinky shit you get up to.”

~

In the event, Dean doesn’t find a hunt (Sam’s not sure if he even tried), although he is out on a grocery run when Max arrives. (“No way you’re cooking, Sammy, I don’t wanna have you poison our guest.”) That leaves Sam jittering around the bunker, nervous, checking his phone so often that the battery drains and he doesn’t hear Max’s initial knock on the door because he’s in his bedroom putting it on to charge.

“I don’t mind,” Max says, “I was outside for like five minutes,” but Sam’s apologising for the third or fourth time as they head downstairs. Max puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, waits until Sam’s looking at him. “Serious. We’re good.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Sorry.”

“Now,” says Max. “I’ve come a long way to see some beat-up flesh.”

Dinner’s already done when they leave the bedroom, so the meal gets off to a bad start with Sam anxious that they’ve been rude. It’s chilli, which is delicious, and Max says so, but although he and Dean are both perfectly polite, neither seems able to relax. Straining for common ground, they keep running into conversational dead ends instead; so that Sam, strung tight with tension, ends up talking much more than he would alone with either Max or Dean. By the time they’ve both finished eating, his plate is still half-full.

“You gonna eat that?” Dean says, at the same time as Max says,

“You feeling okay?”

Flustered by the attention, Sam nods, hunches over his plate and scoops the food fast into his mouth. Maybe once he’s done they can go back to bed and the evening will be over and he can just never invite Max over again. They can just have like, a mobile relationship, conducted in cheap motels and the backs of stolen cars. It might be romantic. (It’ll destroy Sam’s back. But that’s a sacrifice he’s prepared to make.)

Of course, Dean has other ideas. Sam’s barely got the last bite of chilli into his mouth when he’s standing up from the table. “Drink?” he says, and before Sam can swallow his mouthful, Max has agreed.

In the absence of anywhere comfortable to sit that isn’t a bedroom (and Sam’s definitely not ready to deal with the Dean-Max-bed combination), they settle down on the hard wood chairs around a library table. It’s not quite movies on the couch, but this is a lot more Winchester, Sam supposes. (“Old school,” he says to Max, and Max says “you’re not kidding,” looking at the whisky glasses and the crystal decanter.)

Part of being old school is apparently having a liver like a sponge: Sam’s always considered himself a lightweight, next to Dean, but he’s still at the stage of being mildly buzzed when Max drops into full giggling drunkenness, sprawling across the table as he talks real animated, slurring his words. He and Dean are trading hunting stories, which seems a reasonably safe subject, and Max is so obviously comfortable now that Sam finds himself begin to relax. By the time Dean’s running through the well-worn tale of how he took out an entire goblin lair, Sam’s sufficiently lost in his fuzzy feeling of positivity that he doesn’t fully notice Max’s hand slipping under his shirt, fingernails scritching blunt over his lower back. It just feels nice, and he leans into it, lets the tingle of his skin rise to the surface of his mind and merge diffuse with his other good sensations, the food in his stomach and the warm whisky-burn in his throat, the barely-there throbbing of the bruises Max bit over his chest. Then he sees Dean watching them, sees him noticing Max’s hand.

Sam turns pink, stiffens, moves to move away; but Dean catches his eye, shakes his head a little. Unexpectedly, his face lights up.

“Hey, Max, though,” Dean says. “I need to ask you something. That, uh, that all-in-one thing you bought my brother.”

“The onesie,” say Sam and Max together. Max laughs.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “What the fuck.”

Max frowns, lifts his hand from under Sam’s sweater to rub it down over the back of his head. He makes to stand up, collapsing back down again after he’s got maybe an inch towards upright. “It’s like,” he says, “It’s like a hug in a box!... No wait. That’s another thing. It’s like a dick in a… No, wait, the other other thing. It’s a, uh. It’s a wearable hug.”

“It’s an abomination,” Dean says seriously. He raises his hand, index finger extended. “But I got a thing for you guys. You’re gonna, uh.” He leers. “You’re gonna like it. Wait here.”

Terrible images flicker through Sam’s mind. The possibilities of what Dean might think is an amusing, sexy present to offer Sam’s new boyfriend are horrifying to contemplate. He thinks about phallic idols, sex toys. Vegetables. Porn. Phallic-vegetable-sex-toy porn.

“You okay, baby?” says Max. He’s blinking at Sam, concerned, although the fact that his eyes can’t quite focus on Sam’s face is undermining the sentiment. “C’mere.” He reaches forward, grips a hand in Sam’s sweater, pulls him forward into a kiss. Sam goes willingly enough, surrenders his worries to the comforting sensation of Max’s mouth against his.

“Oh yeah I did,” says Dean from behind him, and Sam sees Max’s reaction before anything else; sees his eyes blink wide and his mouth drop open in blank surprise. With a feeling of some trepidation in his stomach, he turns.

Dean is wearing bright red woollen longjohns, the kind of underwear that Sam associates with frontiersmen and Civil War soldiers; the kind of thing that your wife or mother might sew you into for the winter, if you lived in a cabin surrounded by snow. They’re tight on him, a little too small - or maybe they’re _supposed_ to display your junk in eye-watering relief. Sam wouldn’t know. He’s not a longjohns expert. Although, these seem to be expert longjohns. There’s a small Men of Letters’ logo stitched onto the chest.

“Oh God,” says Sam.

“Look,” Dean says, “look,” and he’s gonna say something awful, Sam knows it. He watches as his brother spins around, arms extended, and yep, there it is. A button up flap. Designed for the whole ‘sewn in for the winter’ situation, Sam assumes.

Beside Sam, Max emits a high-pitched wheezing groan, a keening sound that sounds almost pained. He covers his face with his hands and slides very slowly out of his seat and onto the floor. His shoulders are shaking.

Still presenting his ass triumphantly, Dean looks over his shoulder at the two of them. “Easy access!” he says.

“Ahhh,” says Max, gasping for breath. “Ahhhhh…”

Dean is delighted. “You gotta get one of _these_ for Sammy, y’know what I’m saying?” He pauses. “You can have it, you can have this one. I only got it out of some old, this is some old guy shit anyway.” He goes for the buttons, his fingers fumbling but determined. Sam drops his head into his hands.

When he looks up, Dean’s hopping around with one foot in the leg of the longjohns. He’s still wearing underpants, thank God, although they’re old ones, grey with baggy elastic and a sizable hole just over the hem. As Sam watches, Dean tugs his ankle triumphantly free, holds the garment in the air for a moment victorious and then drapes it ceremoniously across Max’s supine body. “Use it wisely, young padawan,” he says. He looks at Sam, points at him, finger-guns. “See _you_ later.” He leaves, bare feet pit-patting away across the floor.

“Am I dreaming?” Max says, muffled. “I think I must be dreaming.” He pulls the longjohns off his face, blinks up at Sam from under the table. “Get down here.”

~

Sam wakes up the next morning in his own bed, naked and disgustingly hung over. His mouth feels like it’s been filled with wet concrete. He rubs the crust out of his eyes, pulls himself up onto his elbow and blinks blearily over to the far side of the room. Max is hunched over the trashcan beside Sam’s desk, throwing up. He’s wearing the longjohns. One of the buttons on the buttflap is missing, so that it’s hanging half-open.

Max notices Sam watching him, swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and says, “Don’t pretend like you don’t want me, baby.”

Sam groans, rolls back over and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I'm not feeling like there will be an eNORmous audience for T-rated Sam/Max domestic fluff, so if you do read it and like it then please let me know! <3


End file.
